Krampus!

So, I've mentioned before that my parents never taught my brother or me about Santa Claus.  They also didn't let us go trick-or-treating.  (But our sister, who is 15 years younger than me, both believed in Santa and got to go trick-or-treating.  It seems that by the time you're on your third kid you don't care if it frolics around with Satan.)  And while I'm very bitter about being denied the chance to go door-to-door seeking out candy, I'm kind of whatevs about the whole Santa thing.  I think I even enjoyed the power that came with being the only kid in the first grade who wasn't so silly as to believe in some bearded fat guy coming down a chimney.  Plus, even if my parents had tried to tell us about Santa, our belief would have been short-lived because I was the master at finding my presents hidden around the house.

Matt, on the other hand, believed in Santa [for an appropriate amount of time], and enjoyed the magic and wonder that accompanied the whole North Pole/fat man/elf/toys legend.

Now, as Matt and I have these weird moments where we realize that this time next year there will be a [likely mobile] little human in our home, we're faced with some big decisions.  Do I really have to make my beautiful tree kid-friendly?  What do we do when Mitch steals the baby's toys?  What do we do when the baby steals Mitch's toys?  Can a 9-month old eat marshmallows?  And, finally, Are we going to tell our kid about Santa?

Now, next year we're probably in the clear, but the year after that we have to know.  And I'm a little blah about telling the kid about Santa, but Matt thinks we probably should.  Actually, I should say that I was a little blah about telling the kid about Santa, until I learned about the best part of the Santa story that nobody ever told me.

Krampus.

Now, you're probably way more hip and knowledgeable than I am, and you've probably known about Krampus for decades, but I just found out about him. But if you're like me and didn't know, well, let me fill you in.  Krampus, according to the almighty Wikipedia, is a scary/evil mythical creature recognized in Alpine countries who accompanies Santa on his Christmas Eve journey around the world.  While Santa leaves gifts for the good children, Krampus kidnaps the bad children, puts them in his sack, and takes them back to his lair where he devours them for his Christmas supper.

Amazing!

Please please please can we tell our kid about Krampus?  It just makes the whole Santa story come alive for me!  Matt says it might be too scary (especially when I suggested that if our little spawn had been bad, then I could plant a burlap sack that was stamped "Property of Krampus" somewhere in the house) and Shecky said that it borders on child abuse.  But people, think of all of the fun possibilities!*

I tried to argue to Matt that there is no crime in Alpine countries**, and that it was probably because people believed in Krampus there.  He rebutted that, no, instead they have really high suicide rates.  Then he stopped, thought, and added, "Or maybe those weren't suicides.  Maybe Krampus just ate them all."

So, it's big grown-up decision-making time.  Do we tell our kid about Krampus or no?



*Like, "Oh, I used to have a brother named Darryl, but he got taken by the Krampus when he was six"  or "See this scar on my arm?  It's from where Krampus grabbed me when I was seven.  I narrowly escaped."


**Which is probably not true at all.

Buy Me Some Peanuts and Shut That Kid Up!

After our adventures with Dave, and after we met up with Best Friend in Brooklyn to don our skinny jeans and vintage tees, Matt and I went to Citi Field to attend a Mets game.  Since I'd never attended a professional sporting event (how is that?), I enjoyed this first.  And I enjoyed the air conditioning on the subway.  And I enjoyed the smell of the food.  And I enjoyed the complimentary umbrellas. 

I did not enjoy the heat.

I also did not enjoy the boy who was sitting next to me.  He was approximately 16 years old, and dorky (and not in a cool way) as can be.  Here's the back of his head.

His mom's the one a few seats over in the red.  I wonder if she maybe did drugs while pregnant, or if perhaps she should have told the little shit "no" a few times during his life.  Lucky for me, I got to sit right next to him (Matt got to sit next to a cool, funny old guy), which gave me a special opportunity to listen to his stupid, stupid commentary throughout the game.  Apparently, he believed that to be a true fan, one had to be an OBNOXIOUS fan.  So he screamed, and he yelled, and he made attempts at heckling (even less original, if it's possible, than this guy), and he tried to start chants "CARLOS BELTRAN--CLAP--CLAP--CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!"  At one point he even claimed that he had no friends.  (Shocking!)  It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut. 

The highlight of this Garbage-Pail-Look-a-Like came when his mom left to go get refreshments. 

Mom:  Do you want me to get you something to drink?  A sprite?
GPLAL: No, I don't want a Sprite!  I want a Pepsi.
Mom: But you don't need any more caffeine.
GPLAL: I WANT A PEPSI!  P-E-P-S-I.  PEPSI. 
Mom: Fine.

Thanks for blessing the world with your spawn, lady.

Anyway, on to the rest of the game.

(I kind of wanted to fight this girl for her hot dog.)

(Matt had to keep an eye on me to keep me from stealing her hot dog.)

The stadium was incredible, and the food was overpriced and delicious. (Can't go wrong with Nathan's hot dogs.)  The game itself was pretty cool, and apparently was neat even by baseball-fan standards.  There was a homerun by some guy who was good at hitting, and it made the big apple inflate! 

There was a pitcher who throws something called knuckle balls named Dickey (the pitcher, not the balls), who almost threw a complete game.  And the Mets beat the cardinals 4-0.  Is that called a shutout?  I don't know.  Oh, and there was this guy named Pujols who's on the other team who is apparently super good, but he wasn't good that day.  As Matt put it, "Dickey's had Pujols's number all day."  I guess they were going to meet for coffee and cupcakes after the game.

I think the best part of the game for me was when it rained.  Even though we had received complimentary umbrellas upon entering the stadium, when we saw that it was raining, Matt and I opted to stand with our arms stretched wide, eyes toward the sky (kind of like Andy toward the end of Shawshank Redemption).  It was refreshing and amazing, and also made the stands look pretty cool.

So that was that.  After the game we met back up with Best Friend, but I'll tell you more about that later.

Father of the Year

So, as part of our Sunday Funday, Matt and Collin and I went to the movies (read: I joined them on their weekly movie date) to see Get Him to the Greek, starring the British guy from Forgetting Sarah Marshall as the same character he played in Forgetting Sarah Marshall.  Now, I wanted to see the movie as soon as I heard that he'd be Aldous Snow again, but I wanted to even more when Matt pointed out that the reason that the preview probably didn't make the movie seem that great was because of how offensive and crass the movie was going to be.  Sold I was.

 We got there early, bought our tickets, got our bucket-sized drinks, and headed to the theater.  And there we sat for a while, bitching about how stupid people are, and mocking the ridiculous previews.  There were previews for Prince of Persia, and for a bunch of other awful looking science fiction stuff.  So we sat there, confused, until Matt had the inspired idea to check his ticket to make sure we were in the right theater.  We were not.  Instead, we were in the theater for Just Wright, Queen Latifah's new flick. This one.



Fortunately, we caught our mistake in time, and made it over to the correct theater across the hall before Get Him to the Greek started.  And it was funny.  Really funny.  Really inappropriately and offensively funny.  And I was loving it. . .until I realized that there were three kids--about nine years old--sitting two rows in front of us.  Collin and I noticed it at the same time, when there was some [very inappropriate for a nine-year old child] banter about mind fucking, and we heard a child's laughter break out.  From that point on, all I could think about was the three kids in front of us, and their piece of shit dad who was sitting with them, looking at his Blackberry and ignoring the fact that this was--next to porn itself--the most inappropriate film he could have taken his three young children to see today.

At some point, I left the theater to use the bathroom, and when I returned I saw that the signs for the two movies had been switched, which accounted for our original confusion.  Matt was happy to hear this, since Collin and I had been laughing for over an hour about how Matt had lead us astray and tried to make us watch some crappy basketball movie.

After the movie was over--and after the asshole dad left his drink in its cupholder; I guess he was just too busy with the Blackberry to think to be courteous and throw it away--we saw the kids out in the hallway pointing out that the signs had been put back where they belonged.  It seemed that they'd made the same mistake that we had, except that their dad wasn't paying enough attention, or didn't care enough, to fix it.  Stellar.  Mom's going to have a fun time explaining to the kids all about fellatio, and the clap, and why people but heroin up their butt.  Father of the year, I tell you. 

Anyway, you (if you're over 18 and are not named Chloe) should go see Get Him to the Greek.  It's hilarious, and it's awful, and I want to go to an Aldous Snow show.  Just don't take the kids, unless you want them to one day be putting heroin up their own butt.**



**Today's episode reminded me a little bit of the time my mom was out of town for the weekend, and my dad went to Blockbuster to rent movies.  I was about 11 and Jordan was 7, and my dad got Boyz in the Hood and Silence of the Lambs.  He, at least, had to good sense to make us leave the room for Silence of the Lambs.  To date, neither Jordan nor I have put heroin up our butt, which is even more remarkable because we went to a high school that was nicknamed "Heroin High."  More on that later.

Jump for Joy!

As you may have figured out from the ol' bloggity blog, I'm not the most pro-baby person on the planet.  So, understand just how much I mean it when I say that I COULD NOT BE HAPPIER that Joy and her husband Kevin are expecting a baby this fall.  If I could paint a perfect picture of a mother, it would be Joy.  Should I ever decide to procreate, I'll first have to emulate her.  She's smart, and nurturing, and creative, and caring, and good.  And I know that she'll be the best mom on the block--or on the mountain. 

One google congratulations.

XOXOXO